There exists a Universal Symphony. Within that Magnum Opus, there are smaller cantatas to which we are born.

At first, like so many, my line of music was a series of rests. One day, I began to sound my notes. Tentative ones to start, followed by more rests. Gradually, my notes became more certain of themselves. More frequent. More varied. Trills and arpeggios. Glissandi. Here staccato, there legato.

As time passed, I settled into my assigned register. Some voices in the Grand Concert are meant to soar. Others provide nuances and grace notes.

For me, I happily accepted my role as a root line of harmony.

There was another line nearby that encouraged me to play, to dance. It was a time of innocence, pleasure with all that surrounded me.

At times, I seemed more and more often to sound a note that was a slight amount flat. One comma off-key. The other lines seemed at times to mock me; at others, chastise.

I began to hear another song calling me. I left my birth song to investigate.

The harmonies were so much sweeter, so much easier to create. I experienced a joy far beyond anything before.

But the new lines convinced me there were some needs in my birth song yet to fulfill.

I returned home to find my melody had changed. What once was mere flatness had become complete discordance. My rhythm no longer matched. The line I had danced with for so long begged me to take up the dance once more. Harmonizing with it was difficult.

I soon noticed the partner line of my youth faltered. The rests came more often, the notes became more staccato. The voice faded from a brave forte to a whispering pianissimo.

One day, it fell silent; a caesura of rest.

I no longer felt I belonged in this song.

The other called again. I hungered for its pure harmonies. I was welcomed unconditionally.

I crescendo.

(This was originally posted to my blog at Open Salon 10 March 2011. Reposted here for a fresh audience.)